One of the founding principles of my production company Fatelink is our belief in the organic development of material.

What does that mean exactly and how do we organically develop material in an age when time is a precious and expensive commodity for the higher profile actors who sometimes drop in for only a day or two of rehearsal, if that?

For me, at the core of the concept of organic development of material is an idea – the idea that the material itself has a life of its own. Furthermore, over time – the film will communicate with you and clarify what it wants to be, much like a child asserting to a parent the profession that suits their personality. I see directing films not so much as a general leading troops to battle to execute a plan, but as a meditator quietly listening to the “voice of the film” that’s already forming itself somewhere beyond our ordinary day-to-day life. Then, it’s the director’s job to support that voice and to encourage it, just as a good parent enrolls his child in karate classes when they express a desire for a career in the martial arts. The “voice of the film” doesn’t scream at you – it whispers, it entreats, it inspires and, sometimes, it vexes you, especially when the “voice of the film” wants to shoot underwater or rewrite a scene to require more speaking parts that will prompt a difficult conversation with the producer. And the “voice of the film” doesn’t speak in a rapid-fire monologue that is discoverable in one sitting. It requires a number of sittings, over time, and there is room for negotiation. Interestingly, if you really can’t afford those other actors and go back to the “voice of the film”, it may come up with an alternate idea. What I’m calling the “voice of the film” also may evolve as you the director gather information through research, thought and rehearsal.

Admittedly, filmmaking in 2017 seems particularly unsuited for this meditative directorial style. In the studio world, hiring a general makes a lot more sense. After all, they have hundreds of people to be corralled to make the film (some of them, quite frankly in my opinion, who are unnecessary). And even when the “voice of the film” begins to call out to the people involved that the plan needs to change, it’s more effective to execute the plan that was drafted before. After all, hundreds of people have committed to it (and in some cases, it seems like hundreds of people had to agree to it, too) and it’s already in motion. Studios feel they must populate their films with actors that drive box office returns, so when a fragile voice expresses, ‘we need someone with XXXX quality to embody this role, not that huge star’, it’s a business imperative to ignore that voice.

The beauty of being an independent filmmaker is that the lower budget and freedom from bureaucratic power struggles mean that the “voice of the film” has a much better chance of emerging. But don’t be fooled – even an independent film has internal political pressure and time is always a factor. So it’s important to set up your process in a way that empowers the “voice of the film” rather than disempowers it.

Here are some simple steps you can take to ensure that your film discovers and heeds its own voice in an organic way.

Don’t be fooled by magical thinking that says rehearsal is unnecessary in film. I’ve heard so many director’s commentaries where it’s said that a chosen moment in the film was “the first take” and that the film did not rehearse the scene whatsoever. I’ve then heard 23-year old directors mimicking that sentiment with broad statements like, “I don’t believe in rehearsing for film.” But it’s dangerous for new and emerging filmmakers to adopt the attitude that rehearsal is something for amateurs and theatre actors. First of all, so often what underlines this attitude in newer directors is hubris rather than a genuine philosophical point of view (The subtext of that previous quote from Mr. Hot Young Director is, ‘I’m so brilliant that I don’t need rehearsal – it would only slow down the magic that is flowing from my brilliance….’). Done properly, rehearsal is a time when the “voice of the film” reveals itself and, if you’re listening, you will find a moment or two that you didn’t know existed when you wrote the screenplay. You’ll discover dialogue that’s unnecessary and other dialogue that can be simplified. You’ll realize that the intricate shot you storyboarded isn’t as important as an ordinary medium or close-up that reveals something more important…and will footnote that moment as a priority for later on set.

Hire high profile actors. But don’t put them in every single role. The economic reality of independent filmmaking is that you must put some high profile actors in your film to increase your chances to sell and distribute the film. But I strongly, strongly suggest you resist the temptation to put high profile actors in every single role. Why? Usually, these actors – even when working for scale – are less available for rehearsal and conversation before the film starts. They tend to drop in on your movie for the allotted amount of time, then go away again. They do what they do extremely effectively, but you don’t want an entire cast that is under that sort of time crunch. If you have an ensemble film of seven main characters, I suggest going for high profile actors for three of the seven roles, at the most. With the other roles, choose amazing working actors that perfectly fit the archetypal quality of the character. And make sure with their agents that they are available for an extensive amount of time for rehearsals. Usually, these actors are extremely grateful to get a leading role, so you will have an easier time going out with them for coffee just to talk about the film and the role. And this time is crucial because, again, it’s simple conversations like this when the “voice of the film” starts to emerge. And you want to feel 100% confident in those conversations, rather than feeling like you owe an agent a favor for an hour’s discussion with his or her client. What I’ve seen is that once the really high profile actors come on set and realize how much development and work has gone into the film and the other characters, they are inspired to dive in and are suddenly on their A+ game, so you end up getting the best of all worlds.

Storyboard the entire film. Shotlist the entire film. Again, related to the point I make in #1, I’ve heard directors as young as 21 insist that they never shotlist or storyboard their films, but rather discover everything on set. Usually, this is accompanied by some sort of statement about shotlists being too “limiting” or a desire to shoot things, “in the moment.” And again, I am skeptical of whether this mentality is hubris or just laziness. Here’s why storyboarding and shotlisting are important, other than their advantages of keeping the crew informed, organized and prepared and just having a plan generally. Storyboarding and shotlisting force a conversation with the “voice of the film” that you might otherwise be too busy to notice. Going shot by shot allows you to organically hear what your film is resisting and what makes it enthusiastic. It’s sort of a boot camp for understanding what type of film you’re directing. If you have enough of these sorts of conversations, you become attuned to the “voice of the film” so much so that if you decide there’s a scene you need to improvise, you will know how to direct that scene without a shotlist. But again, that ability to be “in the moment” can only come from the weeks of work listening and understanding the “voice of the film” through the storyboarding and shotlisting process.

Read. Then Check in. Watch Movies. Then Check in. It can be difficult to separate yourself as a private individual from the film you are serving. So one simple, but effective tactic for developing the “voice of your film” is to check in with your film immediately after reading or watching a film. As an individual, you may have one reaction to a novel, poem or essay, but the film inside you may find something else of value in what you’ve just read. The same concept applies to watching films. So it’s helpful to ask the “voice of the film” inside you, ‘What did you find interesting or useful about that? You might be surprised at what comes back.

Meditate. First of all, let me be honest. When it comes to meditation, I’m like an alcoholic – on the wagon, then off again. However, I have noticed that meditation helps draw up the ideas needed for a film. The process through which that happens is a bit mysterious and also important to keep private, I feel. But don’t take my word for it. Learn meditation from someone who knows what they are doing and you will see results (send a message if you’d like me to recommend someone).

These are just five out of an infinite number of ways you may begin listening to the “voice of your film.” If you have any more methods helpful to directors or screenwriters, please leave them in the comments!

“I’m dating a musician. He’s in a band that plays every Friday night here in town, but they’ll be headed off to do a mini-tour to support their iTunes album soon,” says a friend of yours. You study your friend, somewhat skeptical…and definitely worried. The sentence, “Please remember, you’re dating an actor,” is a commonly overheard refrain – and sometimes an exhortation – in Los Angeles when raised voices, sobbing and genuine confusion alert you that two friends at the table next to you are discussing relationships and heartbreak. In fact, I had an acquaintance who developed a sort of cruel shorthand for dealing with his female friend’s numerous complaints about an on-again, off-again boyfriend. When she lamented about the newest strange and unwanted behavior by her boyfriend, he would reply emphatically with a poignant, one-word reminder, “Actor.”

There is a sense that actors, musicians, poets, writers, comedians, artists can be intelligent, sensitive, passionate, certainly sexy, but also dangerously self-centered, not quite a solid bet for forming relationships. In some ways, artists seem the opposite of dutiful, a worrisome thought when pondering a potential son-in-law.

Now doctors, they clearly have a duty – to heal their patients. Sure, some doctors are unscrupulous but those scandals are the exception that prove the existence of the rule. Teachers report to schools to discharge their duty to transmit knowledge to the next generation. New police officers take a “Law Enforcement Oath” at the beginning of their career, outlining their duty as public servants. So do Senators and U.S. Congressmen and our President. Lawyers are bound by duty to represent their clients and that duty swears them to secrecy about the conversations held in private with clients. And members of the clergy have duties defined by their religious beliefs. Many practitioners in these fields fall far short of what their duty prescribes, but it is significant that entire career categories are defined by aspirations towards fulfilling a duty, perhaps ennobling those who pursue them. After all, if your job requires you to serve an ideal beyond your ego, perhaps you start transcending selfish desires in your personal life as well.

In contrast, on the surface at least, artists seem to gravitate towards the “love” in the classic “duty vs. love” theme. The stereotypical artist engages in some kind of rebellion to join the ranks of his profession, against a future safeguarded by more steady and predictable work. (There are certainly exceptions – people born into esteemed families of artists, for example). Like Romeo or Juliet, the artist falls in love…with the pursuit of his or her craft or with the field they aspire to join. And that love is a kind of river that sweeps the artist along – sometimes here, sometimes there. Desire asserts itself as the key component of the artist’s choice to make a career of the creative life. In the best case scenario, it’s an authentic desire of the soul to discover and express something of value; in the worst case, it’s the desire for the enviable results that accompany success at the highest levels of the creative class – fame, money, cultural importance and influence.

But even when the impulse to become an actor comes naturally, out of genuine curiosity and passion, basing your profession on desire is fundamentally different than joining a profession defined by its duty to others.

So that begs the question – is this stereotypical initiation of the artist into his profession a healthy one? Perhaps living one’s life based on desire and rebellion is the source of the accusation that many artists are suffering from arrested development, trapped in an extended adolescence that’s simply not possible for those who serve others as doctors, teachers, police officers and nurses. Have we entered the arts simply to avoid growing up? Or, perhaps, to avoid having to consider the needs and requirements of others, who are, after all, equally human to non-artists? Are we as artists only living to satisfy our own self-centered needs and to express the passion, thoughts, emotions or imagination within us with no sense of duty towards anyone else or anything greater than ourselves?

I don’t think so. Indeed, I think there are many noble artists fulfilling an important duty through their profession, whether they are doing so consciously or unconsciously. But, it is much more difficult to describe what an artist’s duty should be, compared to other professions, and it is easier to set aside one’s duty as an artist precisely because that duty is so much harder and more elusive to define.

Let’s start out with some heavy hitters and see what they had to say about the duty of the artist. Here are two quotes from Marlon Brandon & Robert Schumann:

“To grasp the full significance of life is the actor’s duty, to interpret it is his problem and to express it is his dedication.” – Marlon Brando

“To send light into the darkness of men’s hearts – such is the duty of the artist.” – Robert Schumann

Both statements have a ring of truth to them, although they certainly contradict one another. Granted, Brando is a first-rate actor, while Schumann is a composer. Brando’s statement would seemingly embrace the actor grasping, interpreting and expressing both dark and light, while Schumann sees art (perhaps a la Schopenhauer) as the lightness that illuminates our otherwise dark hearts. Presumably, under Brando’s description, it would be excellent for an artist to bring a hidden dark color to bear in his work so that we may understand the meaning of that darkness, while for Schumann the artist must strive to conjure light to relieve us from darkness.

So – knowing the statements contradict one another – how can I possibly contend that both Brando and Schumann are correct?

Because – unlike police officers and teachers – the artist’s duty is more closely related to the individual self. In the case of Brando, his duty was to ‘grasp the full significance of life’ and he did so, in the process unearthing unforgettable moments on film. But Brando’s mistake here is in trying to imply that EVERY actor’s duty is ‘to grasp the full significance of life’ rather than accepting it as his duty alone.

In the classic SINGIN’ IN THE RAIN, the late Debbie Reynolds, only 19 at the time it was shot, overjoyed a nation with her irrepressible, optimistic performance. I would dispute that Ms. Reynolds’ duty in that role was to “grasp the full significance of life.” No. Her role called on her to do something else, something also very valuable to a nation in need. Her performance embodied the American can-do spirit after a vicious world war through a performance that exuded joy. If Debbie Reynolds’ duty had been – “to lift the spirits of others” – she certainly fulfilled it in that role, just as Brando fulfilled his duty to “grasp the full significance of life” with his own, very different, oeuvre. He saw the meaning. She brought the light into the darkness.

And the variations of duty with regards to artists are not binary, but rather limitless because there are an infinite number of individual variations of important qualities that need embodiment and exploration for the greater good. Artists must just take more time – and indeed walk through a bit of a creative process – to become conscious of their own intrinsic qualities that can be helpful to the culture at large…and how to then formulate those qualities into a sort of vision statement, or duty that serves their fellow citizens.

The problem for actors – and artists – is that because determining one’s duty is a two-step process that requires sober self-reflection, it’s easy to ignore the concept of duty altogether and slip into adolescent thinking and self-centeredness when the nature of your duty is not obvious. And once we slip into a self-centered life without the yoke of duty, we can become “that guy” that Los Angeles friends discuss through tears over cappuccinos.

So maybe it’s worthwhile for all artists to spend an afternoon or two or three asking themselves, “What is my duty? What is the intrinsic quality I have to share that could be helpful to others in need?” I believe that once you figure out your artist’s duty (consistent with the qualities you possess) – and perhaps even just by asking the question – then life may be as meaningful and selfless for artists, as for anyone else doing their part to make our world a better place.

—

Hunter Lee Hughes is a filmmaker and actor living and working in Los Angeles and the founder of Fatelink. His current feature film Guys Reading Poems is touring film festivals and this blog is dedicated to the process of making his second feature film, “Inside-Out, Outside-In.” If you enjoy the blog, please support our team by following us on Facebook, Twitter (@Fatelink) or Instagram (@Fatelink).

Originally, as many of you know who’ve been following the development of this film, “Inside-Out, Outside-In” was supposed to be my feature film directorial debut. Instead, I got very lucky to get a different feature off the ground, Guys Reading Poems, which is currently touring the festival circuit. Now that I’m returning to a script I began writing four years ago, I see that changes are necessary. Sigh. Rewrite.

First of all, major developments in our political landscape render the original draft looking a bit outdated after only a relatively short time. For starters, the fact that gay marriage is now the law of the land will have a big impact on the gay couple in the screenplay. I’m left with the choice of updating the script or keeping it as a “period piece” that takes place….in 2012. Updating the script is smarter.

Putting the gay marriage issue aside, I also see that there are opportunities to make pragmatic adjustments to the plot. The film tackles conflicts within the media business and a few more years going through the process of making a feature film (not to mention hearing new industry gossip) empowers me to better understand a world that I now occupy as well as observe.

And then, there’s my online philosophy class. For better or worse, all this talk of existentialism and the meaning of life really got my head spinning about some of the themes in the script. I do feel that there’s symbolic content floating around the edges of the screenplay that I may skillfully make a bit more conscious with a little luck, hard work and caffeine. So I’m going to try.

My process for rewriting always includes some unspecified amount of time existing as a sponge, internalizing ideas, inspiring works of art and music (and that online philosophy class). It’s kinda like the Time Machine for Mac computers. Somewhere in the background, without being noticed, my system is working to catalogue. But one of the hardest aspects of re-writing is moving beyond an abstract phase and actually conquering the previous draft with a red pen. Basically, my soak-up-the-ether-time with this script has been going on for the last eight to eleven months. The question then becomes, how do I start squeezing that sponge into the content of the screenplay? Where to (re) start?

For some reason, I was drawn to my favorite Shakespeare play, “Romeo & Juliet.” [Yes, my pug’s name is Romeo, too]. I really just wanted to read the prologue of the play. Since it’s so good (and in the public domain), I’ll copy/paste it for you:

“Two households, both alike in dignity. (In fair Verona, where we lay our scene), From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes a pair of star-crossed lovers take their life, Whose misadventured piteous overthrows doth with their death bury their parents’ strife. The fearful passage of their death-marked love and the continuance of their parents’ rage, Which, but their children’s end, naught could remove, Is now the two hours’ traffic of our stage— The which, if you with patient ears attend, What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.”

The famous balcony of Romeo and Juliet in Verona, Italy. Juliet’s balcony

So that got me going and I decided to write a prologue to “Inside-Out, Outside-In.” I was surprised by just how quickly I was able to get it down on paper. The first new words to “Inside-Out, Outside-In” in more than three years…and effective words, too. Maybe all the sponging worked. Satisfying.

The new prologue clearly tips its proverbial hat to “Romeo and Juliet”and I’m okay with that. If you’re writing a romantic drama, you could do worse that align yourself with the most iconic star-crossed lovers of all-time.

Who knows if I’ll be able to use it? But – as an exercise – it forced me to at least attempt to sum up the script and make it exciting for audiences on page one. It forced me to find a comparison for the film. (Now, I can be one of those Hollywood douches who says….it’s “Romeo and Juliet” meets ?????? ). It forced me to start the rewrite. Several days later, my insomnia inspired me to write an epilogue, too.

Now, it’s just a matter of the 93 pages in between.

—

Hunter Lee Hughes is a filmmaker and actor living and working in Los Angeles and the founder of Fatelink. His current feature film Guys Reading Poems is touring film festivals and this blog is dedicated to the process of making his second feature film, “Inside-Out, Outside-In.” If you enjoy the blog, please support our team by following us on Facebook, Twitter (@Fatelink) or Instagram (@Fatelink).

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Eugene Delacroix once famously said, “To be a poet at twenty is to be twenty. To be a poet at forty is to be a poet.” Maybe Delacroix’s sentiment explains one of my favorite lines from the screenplay, “Inside-Out, Outside-In.” It comes from a seemingly unimportant scene when movement theater director Nathaniel Quinn, alone on an empty, dark stage, mutters aloud, “Enter Stage Right. A young man, filled with hope, crosses to the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.”

Once spoken aloud, Nathaniel chokes back tears, knowing the statement embodies the polar opposite of his current state of mind. “Inside-Out, Outside-In” follows a man whose experiences with corrupt Hollywood, whose personal and professional failures have robbed him of the hope of outer achievement so brightly felt in younger years. But nonetheless, he has become – despite himself – the real deal “poet” as he approaches middle age. And that, in itself, is its own strange comfort, providing the fuel for his march towards a destiny that the screenplay documents.

Making a movie like “Inside-Out, Outside-In” feels like war and a spiritual revival all at once. War because the sheer number of tasks and daunting resources required demand strategy, stamina and allies. Spiritual revival because the work being created isn’t simply an objective science project about someone else – it’s you up there and every decision reflects, in some way, your own conscience and authenticity. Sometimes the two are linked. During the crazy lead-up to our staged reading of the piece, our event planner Louise Miclat asked me to write something for the program. I quickly turned to our Fatelink mission statement, adjusted it a bit and Louise threw this into the program, “Hunter Lee Hughes founded Fatelink, a production company whose mission is to create compelling stories and empower others to tell their own…”

I didn’t give the statement a second thought until after the reading was over. We had too much drama unfolding to waste time on philosophy. Our original cast member for Abhaya was forced to drop out less than a week before the reading due to a serious illness in his family. Finally, two days before the read, we found Adrian Quinonez to play the part. I thought I was done with last-minute cast changes, but at around noon on the day of our performance, I lost our “Dorothy,” one of the lead roles, due to a last-minute unavoidable scheduling conflict. The actress was near tears explaining things and I did my best to reassure her that we’d be okay. Downing my coffee at the PaliHouse hotel in West Hollywood, I immediately walked out in a panic…and forgot to pay my bill. Luckily, I didn’t get far before realizing my mistake and went back, just in time to preserve my relationship with the waiter who’s down for me to order one cup of coffee and park there for two or three hours at a stretch.

As I paid the nearly abandoned bill, I realized that I wasn’t at all convinced that we would be okay, not just because we were down an actress. We never even ran the entire script at our two rehearsals. We built a pre-show that involved ten actors doing living theatre that seemed risky for a screenplay reading. Some had asked, “What is this? A table read? A staged read?” I tried to explain it, “Nathaniel’s a performance artist so we have to create a screenplay reading that reflects that…otherwise, we won’t embody the character and it won’t work. We have to create our own performance art to connect them to our story.” Some people got it. Some people faked it. And some “got it” but seemed to think there wasn’t enough time to pull off such an intricately staged experience.

I scrambled my rolodex looking for an actress. This one’s too old. This one’s too young. This one’s too big a bitch. This one’s not tough enough. For anyone who’s ever had to replace an actor on the day of the performance, I’m sure you appreciate the special kind of anxiety that accompanies the experience. Finally, scanning an old phone list from the master class at the Ivana Chubbuck studios, my adrenaline pumped an extra wave of hormones when I saw her name – “Holly Elkjer.” I immediately called and offered the part. Must’ve sounded like a crazy man in the message. Within a half hour or so, I received a phone call back, “Hunter….you know I haven’t acted in a year,” said the ever-modest Holly. “You’re in,” I shot back. It was already 2:30 p.m. Our show started in less than six hours.

Holly studied at the Ivana Chubbuck Studios for at least five years, consistently doing excellent work. She cared deeply about her work as an actress, but not necessarily for the traditional Hollywood machine that might’ve made her an acting success. Maybe the veneer required for that sort of ascension clashed with her South Dakota upbringing. She also spent a lot of time painting, with the results intriguing enough that I felt confident that she could have a career as a visual artist if she found connections to the right group of people. But I also could imagine the fine-arts set easily overlooking a woman whose values and spirit strove to find a traditional life as a wife and mother, despite the hardship of doing so in the narcissistic breeding grounds of Los Angeles. Still, Holly tried, on all fronts, and at least has been rewarded for channeling her sharp eye into a hairstyling career at a top notch salon in West Hollywood.

Our tech operator Phillip Wheeler highlighted Holly’s script as I sped towards the salon. She warned me that she’d be doing extensions right up until 7:00 p.m. The earliest she could possibly arrive at the theatre would be 7:30 p.m. Just four hours before showtime, I ran in with the highlighted script. As Holly twisted and clipped the hair of a client-turned-theatre-bystander, Holly quizzed me about the character, her objectives, her past history. I answered the best I could, then later sent a text, “She’s one of these ppl who’s trying too hard…”

Thirty minutes before we were scheduled to walk on stage, we were still missing Holly and Rex Lee, (Entourage’s ‘Lloyd Lee’) who was set to play Steven Park, the sharp-tongued talent agent of our leading man. By 7:45, they had both showed up. We quickly ran the entrance and exits on and off the stage and Holly settled in for a ten-minute stretch of trying to understand the script. “Who am I even referring to here?” she asked Marlyse Londe backstage, who did her best to guide the newcomer. Within minutes, we all walked on stage as if this was the plan all along. The show goes on.

You might say the night belonged to Jerod Meagher, our leading man. Jerod – another fascinating human being – has lived in Los Angeles for two years and has spent most of his time training and doing low budget work, in addition to three “day jobs.” He hasn’t even attempted to find an agent yet, believing it more important to develop himself as an actor and man. He couldn’t be more right for “Jason Quinn.” And, wow, did he pull off the performance and prove that he’s more than ready to play on the big screen….and not just in my film. You might say that the night belonged to our two monks from the past life story, Adrian and Gopal Divan, a brand new Los Angeles arrival. Adrian noted that I exhaled dramatically after he nailed his monologue. Going into that part of the script, I realized I’d never even heard him say it and didn’t have a clue what was going to happen. It turns out my trust was warranted. And Gopal also delivered in a big way on a crucial scene, which can’t be described for fear of ruining the suspense of the film. You might say the night belonged to Rex, who consistently elicited laughter with his character’s witticisms, or Marlyse, who startled the audience with her beauty and audacity. You might say the night belonged to Betty Jones, whose penetrating singing voice moved us all. I could nominate almost anyone from the cast, but I think the best case is that the night belonged to Holly, who pulled off a lead role with only ten minutes preparation. I guess, actually, she’d be preparing her whole life, through dreams delayed, hopes revived, skills gained, lost and developed again. As my friend Richard observed from the audience, “Holly came across like sunshine, with her red hair, her smile, her presence. You just can’t deny how genuine she is.”

As I walked her to the valet station after the show, Holly told me that she wanted to return to Ivana’s class and resume her career as an actress. I looked at her, then gave her a hug, no doubt that Holly will be the “poet at 40.”

More than any of us, I guess the night belonged to an idea: whether you are Nathaniel or Holly, whether you’ve been slighted by the industry or rewarded, you have to keep going, do your work and see what happens. And sometimes, something good and unexpected comes along. And that gives you the courage to keep going…a courage that an unknown stranger down the line will need from you.

As I left Holly and walked back to the Bailey’s/Coffee party in full swing, I realized that the Fatelink mission statement I dashed off for the program…had been accomplished without us even really trying.

Hunter Lee Hughes is a filmmaker and actor living and working in Los Angeles and the founder of Fatelink. His current feature film Guys Reading Poems is touring film festivals and this blog is dedicated to the process of making his second feature film, “Inside-Out, Outside-In.” If you enjoy the blog, please support our team by following us on Facebook, Twitter (@Fatelink) or Instagram (@Fatelink).

An intimate, elegant screening room fittingly served as the locale for our second reading of “Inside-Out, Outside-In”, unconsciously expressing the ethos and hopes of the project. At first scheduled for the more grand space on the 5th floor, I decided to relocate our reading downstairs so my WeWork colleague Kristin Nedopak could more easily access the 5th floor screening room to celebrate the release of her webseries, “Skyrim Parodies.” At first obstinate over a change requiring more emails and a slightly smaller room, I relented. After all, the number four is the number of spiritual wholeness and maybe a bit of good luck might follow a bit of a good deed. Turns out, the fifteen actors and three invited guests fit perfectly into an imperfect circle of chairs of differing sizes, styles and fabrics.

Like all readings, despite my best efforts, we started late. Still, as director, I felt is was my responsibility to properly frame the evening and send us in the right direction. So I somewhat awkwardly told our group that the script was intensely personal to me, hoping that such a revelation would increase the chances that they would also bring an intensely personal approach to the night. Building on that notion, I asked the actors to let go any sense of a “professional veneer.” Lately, I find the acting in studio films so boring because a sense of the actors’ professionalism prevents me from relating to them as human beings. They almost know the beats too well – it’s like watching an emotionally resonant cuckoo clock. Even at an early stage, I didn’t want to see that happen to my actors. So I suggested they see the reading as a “practice round” and encouraged them to just be a human being in a situation, not a professional actor at a reading.

Just before we dove in, television’s Rex Lee once again blurted out a quote of the night, “Is that buzzing, like, going to go on for infinity?” Apparently, a smoke alarm needed more acknowledgement than a roomful of actors and went off with annoying regularly throughout the reading. But something amazing about a good story and good acting – once we got past page 10, I didn’t hear the buzzing anymore and not because of a decrease of its decibel level.

I’d made a number of changes in the cast of the reading – about half the people were new. Sometimes, it was a result of a desire to try a new angle with the character, sometimes a scheduling conflict forced a change. Also, my friend Zsa Zsa Gershick, an accomplished playwright and director, previously implored me to see different people in many of the parts before settling on someone, as part of the process of understanding the character as deeply as possible. Indeed, the fragility of casting and character development pervades my thinking at the moment – add a few years to this character’s age and another character needs to be younger. If we go with a more quirky sensibility for one character, it requires a different character to step up as an authority, changing the requirements for the actor playing him.

An interesting addition to the evening was Jerod Meagher, an unrepresented actor just starting out at Ivana Chubbuck’s studio, where so many of us have trained. He stopped by the office a few days before the reading in hyper-ripped jeans to get some direction on the character. I immediately liked that he took notes with a pen and crudely folded piece of paper rather than an iPhone or some other secondary device. It’s a good thing if notes are fragile enough to be lost. He apparently made a good impression on at least four female attendees whose comments after the reading ranged from, “He’s got something” to “He’s sincere” to perhaps the most powerful – “I don’t know, I just like Jerod.” The ever-quirky and entertaining Tracey Verhoeven went a step further and said, “He’s just like a little angel. I mean, not like one of those fat cherub angels but like a good-looking one.” Also new this time were talented veterans Whitney Anderson, Luke Massy, Ethan Rainsand Charles Hoyes. Whitney, who recently forwarded my acting reel to a director for a mind-bending fright flick for the role of a juicy psycho guy, is one of the most helpful people to know in terms of making recommendations. She’s savvy about seeing when colleagues might be a good fit and has no problem connecting them, a refreshing attitude in this town.

Afterwards, the approval of the adjustments I made to the script were heartening and the discussion turned more to “which way to go” with certain characters and practical concerns for the shooting rather than folks suggesting major overhauls. I even got one, “It was fuckin’ awesome” from a guest. That felt good. I am still worried about the climactic scene being too talk-y and Ann Russo echoed that concern. But we both felt the visual element of the choreography in that section might compensate for a dialogue-heavy stretch. Ms. Russo easily could’ve been a colleague of mine as a story analyst. She consistently airs notes that my foggy unconscious hasn’t yet articulated, so I was especially grateful for her feedback throughout the night on characters, plot and pre-production. There’s always a chance people are holding back their doubts out of respect or fear, but I now feel confident enough with the script to go ahead and create a shooting script to schedule the film and start getting more detailed with the budget.

Speaking of budget, the one startling bit of feedback came from high fashion designer Sphetim Zero, who passionately declared that he would need $50,000 to properly costume the feature. I appreciated his ambition, but warned him that was impossible with our current budget constraints. He encouraged me to open myself up to receiving more from the Universe. I agreed to be more vigilant about hoping for the best, but warned him to think of a back-up plan. We both agreed that he would help me clothe people from their closets for the industry read in February and take it from there.

Once again, a core group ended up at Bossa Nova for late night steak. This time, Dumbass Filmmakers! producer Jason Fracaro joined myself and aspiring social media guru Richard Scharfenberg (more on this effort in a future post). Jason, back from a 10-week basic training for the Army and his inclusion in the National Guard, has a reputation as one of the best guys to know (and one of the worst gaydars – ask me privately) and he gamely filled our quota for at least one “straight guy” at the dinner. Rex arrived late and this time, we were able to order his “ribeye steak cooked ‘medium rare plus’ with plantains, extra pico de gallo, extra salsa” before he arrived. But, just like last time, he paid for all of us with the quick move of a credit card and a declaration that, “I don’t believe in splitting checks.” He’s one of those guys that picks up the check when it’s kinda expensive or a big group and lets you return the favor at a hamburger joint. Ah, friends.

Hunter Lee Hughes is a filmmaker and actor living and working in Los Angeles and the founder of Fatelink. His current feature film Guys Reading Poems is touring film festivals and this blog is dedicated to the process of making his second feature film, “Inside-Out, Outside-In.” If you enjoy the blog, please support our team by following us on Facebook, Twitter (@Fatelink) or Instagram (@Fatelink).

After a talk with one of my inspiring indie film friends, I went crazy and booked a hotel room for four at Sundance in Park City at $289/night. Of course, I can still cancel the reservation in the next two weeks so there’s really no risk to me just yet. But I figured I can recruit three other crazies to drive in my black Prius, split gas, split the hotel room and dive into the nexus of the film festival world for under $500 bucks. I already have a lead on one or two potential Prius-Riders (it’s hard to feel gangsta in a Prius, but still, I think I’ll manage to feel a little gangsta).

The question is, is this worth my time and money? I’m leaning “yes” for a couple reasons.

I had planned to hold a reading of the polished screenplay for investors and industry on January 16th. Well, I might lose some folks due to Sundance on that date and might gain some folks after the festival by moving that to around February 5th, 6th or 7th. (My friend suggested other industry folks might be at their “high point” of interest in indie film right after a successful festival). If all my prep work was headed towards a date that wasn’t ideal, maybe I ought to work with the calendar instead of fighting it. And if I do attend Sundance, I’d have the reading – an upcoming event – to invite people who showed interest in me or the film.

Also, I had previously thought it was better to attend a film festival only after you’ve had a film accepted into that festival. My friend convinced me that this might not be the right approach. After all, selection to Sundance is very rare and political, so there’s no shame in not having a film there…just yet. Plus, a Sundance experience might connect me to other interesting filmmakers and film-lovers and provide a sort of energetic push for the project. While I certainly don’t plan to give Park City the “hard sell” on ‘Inside-Out, Outside-In,’ a few new friendships are worth a lot over the course of a career and Sundance at least provides an opportunity – and one OUTSIDE the established power structure of L.A. – to make connections and to be exposed to new ideas and talent. In a sense, everyone there is at least committed enough to filmmaking to travel some distance. So that’s promising in and of itself.

Plus, I’ve never done Sundance and maybe it’s just that time. Maybe this year is the year the itch becomes a scratch and that’s okay.

Will Sundance be worth it? I don’t know, but Hamlet ended up killing himself and his family after bemoaning an existential question, so I’m not gonna take his example and second guess too much. I guess “To Sundance” it is….

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Hunter Lee Hughes is a filmmaker and actor living and working in Los Angeles and the founder of Fatelink. His current feature film Guys Reading Poems is touring film festivals and this blog is dedicated to the process of making his second feature film, “Inside-Out, Outside-In.” If you enjoy the blog, please support our team by following us on Facebook, Twitter (@Fatelink) or Instagram (@Fatelink).

I believe a revitalized cinema must first strip away the sleek “coolness” and visual sophistication that has infected Los Angeles and…through its amplification by Hollywood stars…the world. The demoralizing pretty people on the big screen these days no longer seem to exemplify beauty, but rather seem to be a sum of parts – cute face, talent, hot abs, nice ass, confidence. Whereas something truly beautiful inspires us to live a more realized life, the current crop of Hollywood stars, starlets and films somehow leaves you feeling badly about yourself, not measuring up, as if somehow the films themselves are sending powerful coded messages that its own creators and participants are more valuable than you, sitting in the audience. While this state of affairs may’ve always been true in terms of raw financial net worth of stars vs audience members, there were periods in movie history where we felt the people on screen were “one of us (only better).” Now, there is an unconscious sense that we’ll never be like the people in the movies…and they know it.

It is a tried-and-true cliche that Hollywood values “special effects” over story. Well, I believe not only that the cliche is true, but the mindset of “special effects” has taken over the casting process and our selection of cultural icons. The modern crop of stars embodies, in a sense, the ethos of this “special effects” mentality. The stars are dazzling, monumental in scale and proportion yet deceptive, flashy and empty of content deeper than a loud “Pop.” Whatever depth of feeling they do generate is almost a spectacle, rather than an organic part of their humanity. As assuredly as something was “missing” from the Old Testament God that rained vengeance on those that didn’t worship Him, something is missing from the stars/myths of modern cinema. What is missing?

A revitalized and satisfying movie experience requires a re-evaluation of the truly important moments in a human being’s life and the most crucial aspects to being alive. I believe the amazing technical and visual sophistication of Hollywood and its ever-increasing ability to dazzle audiences is not simply a product of genius, hard work and technological advances, although all three are to be given some credit. Hollywood’s mind-blowing visual show and piecemeal-perfect stars are also a compensation for something it lacks – the ability to deliver intimacy between its characters and with its audience.

As I ready this script and experience, I want to build a film that convinces the audience – above all else – that the people in the film are experiencing real intimacy with each other. By extension, the audience should be included in that sense of intimacy and made to feel the range of scary, giddy and life-affirming emotions that comes with finding a cinema that knows your own foibles and potential, a cinema that dares to be affectionate and inclusive of the audience’s nascent hopes. Right now, the dying breed of people who truly understand intimate relationships and find the courage to live them out need to rally and create projects that preserve a sense of intimacy in all art forms. Those people may not look as pretty as Hollywood stars (indeed they probably shouldn’t) and they may not inhabit spaces that look as pretty as Hollywood locations, but they will certainly be more beautiful. And that’s what a country mired in the hopelessness of a slow-going recovery really needs. Modern Hollywood slyly celebrates the dominance of the 1% (although they paradoxically are the biggest advocates for socialism), while an Intimacy Cinema celebrates those across the income spectrum that retain the courage to live as individuals deeply connecting against all odds with other individuals. They win freedom of the need for outer approval, even at great cost to their quality of life and esteem. And yet, what they win is something that the audience intuitively feels that it can attain, too.

If we succeed in breeding new types of Intimacy Cinema stars, I promise so many rehabs won’t be needed for their offspring.

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Hunter Lee Hughes is a filmmaker and actor living and working in Los Angeles and the founder of Fatelink. His current feature film Guys Reading Poems is touring film festivals and this blog is dedicated to the process of making his second feature film, “Inside-Out, Outside-In.” If you enjoy the blog, please support our team by following us on Facebook, Twitter (@Fatelink) or Instagram (@Fatelink).

Last night, I saw Belgian Bavo Defurne’s hypnotic debut feature “North Sea, Texas” and was struck throughout with his adept usage of color to convey emotions and theme in a picture that pointedly veered away from reliance on dialogue. During the first viewing, the colors worked completely on a subconscious level for me. In the moment, I wasn’t aware of why certain vivid colors were selected at certain moments, but knew they were purposeful and effective without knowing why (this is why great films merit a second viewing). Like his lead character, I can only imagine Mr. Defurne’s pathway to directing came from an early childhood fascination with drawing, color and aesthetics. He uses one of his sparing lines of dialogue to point out the importance of color when the child’s mother even says, “Red is the color of love.”

Of course, I come to directing from the completely opposite end of the spectrum, having focused most of my career on acting and creating narrative stories, through screenwriting, through my work with writer Mardik Martin and through years of reading scripts for Paramount Classics/Paramount Vantage. I’ve had the opportunity to observe how the script changed or evolved into a piece of moving art projected onto a screen. And I know how to tell a story. I’m that shy guy at the party who’s quiet for most of the night until it’s my turn to talk and then I say, “So, the other night, I’m at the ATM when….” and everybody shuts up and listens.

Filmmaking all starts with the inner lives of the characters for me, their dreams, desires and conflicts with one another and the world. The aesthetics of the film come second to that, after I’ve worked most of the conflicts and characterizations out in my mind and on paper. And yes, because I wrote plays before I wrote films, I’m turned on by dialogue revealing characters rather than the opposite. But still, film is a visual medium. In our years of working together, Mardik often told me, “With a movie, don’t write with your head or your heart. Write with your eyes.”

So maybe (I’m guessing) Defurne’s impulse to make a film starts with a drawing and mine from a character’s inner life and conflict, but it doesn’t mean I can’t learn from him about the importance of color psychology both in terms of expressing something about the character and provoking emotion from the audience with the palette selected. When I first saw the film, I thought, “Maybe I should just wait and figure out this color stuff after the rewrite. This comes later.” But, as my previous blog post on mindmapping shows, I did include a branch for color for each character. So why not do the work and look into color and try to peg the color schemes for each character, for the situations they face? Although it may not directly change any lines of dialogue, it might help me discover another layer of the characters, which could impact the rewrite. And if I know what characters embody certain colors, I just might add a line to reflect that, as the “North Sea, Texas” screenplay did with its comment on the color red, which works perfectly to reveal that character. It also sounds pretty damn fun.

The biggest fear I have in delving this deep at this point in the process is the fear that all this “extra” work will mean nothing if the film doesn’t get made (I’m a little jealous when I see European film credits that indicate they got funding from their government). My fear says, ‘What if after diving in and realizing that the antagonist should wear purple here and lavender here, we end up with only 25K to make the film and we don’t even have time to buy a purple shirt (or some ridiculous thought like this)?’ This fear of the film not being made has to be confronted frequently (at least for me), but investing more time and energy on deepening the characters, the look, the script and yes the color psychology involved with the film will only pay dividends when the time comes to make the film, no matter what budget we raise. And if i’m armed and prepared to answer every question about not just the characters and their conflict and the script’s structure, but also exactly how I see the film down to the colors of the costumes, I’ll spark more confidence in investors (or even established actors) taking a gamble on an indie film.

Jung has written on color psychology, as have tons of others. I’ll include here a brief YouTube video from About.com that introduces the concept. Happy viewing and let me know what working with color has taught you about your characters and script.

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Hunter Lee Hughes is a filmmaker and actor living and working in Los Angeles and the founder of Fatelink. His current feature film Guys Reading Poems is touring film festivals and this blog is dedicated to the process of making his second feature film, “Inside-Out, Outside-In.” If you enjoy the blog, please support our team by following us on Facebook, Twitter (@Fatelink) or Instagram (@Fatelink).

It doesn’t take a social scientist to recognize that a Halloween costume is rarely just that. It’s not random. People must select, on some basis, what they will wear for Halloween. No where was this phenomenon more on display that at the annual Halloween festivities in West Hollywood, probably the single best attended event in the city (with perhaps Pride in June as a close competitor). In the gay world of WeHo last night (which by the way was at least 60% straight), Halloween was a High Holiday and the most common costume was that of Robin, sidekick to Batman. I also saw couples having fun with the concept of “twinning” – both dressing up as prisoners, both as cave men and, in one case, both dressing up as zombies with ‘sex for brains.’ There were some couples that had related but opposite costumes, such as Devil with Angel, Cop with Criminal, Master with Slave, etc. One wonders if these are the accurate psychic representations of the relationship or if they are toying with inhabiting the opposite role for a night (a friend told me he’d once dressed up as a slave to a dominatrix when in fact he held all the power in the relationship). But either way, the selection of the costume means something about who you are and your relationship to your self and others (Know that whenever you are at a Halloween function, psychologists and artists are having a lot of fun looking into your subconscious). Some people are relieved from the stress of choosing to represent themselves as an individual and dress up as whole groups – there was one group of friends that dressed up as the Scooby Doo clan and another group that all dressed up as Waldo from the ‘Where’s Waldo?’ posters. Then, there are those that create or select something that is their costume alone – whether a witch or zombie or fairy or something else of their own creation (inspired by my existentialism class, I wore a black suit, black shirt, red tie, black mask, carried my textbook and went as an ‘Existential Messenger of Death’). And, of course, there are those that choose to wear no costume at all, which in and of itself is another interesting choice. You cannot say nothing about yourself on Halloween, like it or not.

That’s what is truly eerie about Halloween – it’s an opportunity to reflect unseen layers of our psyche for ourselves and others to see. But this potentiality is so powerful that the herd instinct in us rises up to prevent Halloween from its illuminative potential and turns it into the most mundane and meaningless holiday of them all. It starts out as a curious conundrum for the psyche and turns into a boozing mass of conformists confronted with one makeshift hot dog stand after another, all selling the same thing.

There’s an argument to be made that a Halloween costume reveals our own ExistenZ’s struggle to express itself. Karl Jaspers describes ExistenZ as the being inside that fights against “mundane being.” From my understanding, it’s the authentic, transcendent self that takes its cues not from the world and the demands of the world, but from its own essence (a force for the purposes of my movie that I will describe as “Inside-Out”). Maybe it’s the tricky psychic force within that inspires you to dress up as Peter Pan for Halloween in the midst of your Puer Aeternus complex (so you might get a clue). But another powerful force is at work on Halloween. Nietzsche and a host of others identified the concept of a “herd instinct” which some, like Martin Heidegger, believe also exists in some form within each individual whether they are currently engaging with a herd or sitting by themselves (a force for the purposes of my movie that I will describe as “Outside-In”). Maybe it’s the powerful messaging you receive to be like your peers that compels you to gather en masse, drink, have fun and observe the unspoken social contract of what it means to enjoy a Halloween festival.

Heidegger argues that the primal potentialities of the soul are “leveled down” by idle talk and concerns of people on a “group level.” An individual’s instinct to subject itself to the mentality of the herd mitigates the fear of that person’s inward ExistenZ potential…and its impermanence. The herd instinct most fears death. It is something that is processed on a group level that protects the group from processing impermanence on a soul level. The herd tells you what to do when death occurs, but it allows you to avoid associating it with your own eventuality. As Heidegger explains, death happens, but in a strange way it doesn’t happen to you when you’re in the herd. It might sound nice to be protected from the reality of death, but the herd also protects you from considering how your own death might change – and even liberate – your life with all its potential.

Now, back to Halloween…so just when your ExistenZ bubbles up to the surface and demands you choose a ridiculous costume because it desperately wants to show you something about yourself that you simply can’t see, the herd instinct swells with its zombie-like message from the outside: drink, drink more, friends, idle talk, bullshit, HOT DOGS!, other friends, drink, sex, sex, sex, sleep. It is a slumber that costs the transcendent lesson that the ExistenZ made available through the selection of the costume in the first place. It is a slumber that keeps at bay ExistenZ and the reality of our own death…during a holiday that supposedly highlights it.

And so I walked into West Hollywood last night as the “Existential Messenger of Death,” selecting someone in the crowd, usually someone not wearing a costume, that I would then stealthily approach and say, “Happy Last Halloween. End of Days is here. You have been Chosen.” Then, I would walk away, just slowly enough to see either a mocking insolence or disturbed agitation register on their face.

I saw it as my responsibility to inject the idea of Death back into Halloween. People deserve some Dread. Not just because death is part of Halloween, but because feeling the angst of death is the best hope that an individual will throw off their herd mentality and turn towards the inner potential waiting for them to create a uniquely amazing life.

My movie is currently titled, “Inside-Out, Outside-In.” But when you see it (sometime in 2014 with any luck) I hope it might earn the reputation of, “Existential Messenger of Death.”

Hunter Lee Hughes is a filmmaker and actor living and working in Los Angeles and the founder of Fatelink. His current feature film Guys Reading Poems is touring film festivals and this blog is dedicated to the process of making his second feature film, “Inside-Out, Outside-In.” If you enjoy the blog, please support our team by following us on Facebook, Twitter (@Fatelink) or Instagram (@Fatelink).